


In the Time of Angels

by Rehfan



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural, Superwholock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Loss, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, John, the Winchester brothers, and the Doctor are all chasing down the Weeping Angels in the heart of London.</p><p>Will they capture and neutralize them all before one of them gets them?</p><p> </p><p>This is a Sherlock Secret Santa gift for kaladinstormblessed. Merry Christmas! Happy SuperWhoLock!</p><p>Feel free to follow her pretty blog at: http://kaladinstormblessed.tumblr.com/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost

“Contain it, John! Don’t blink!” Sherlock shouted down the alley. He was running at full tilt toward John’s location, the Winchesters on his heels. This was an angel they weren’t expecting. They all thought they couldn’t help the Doctor with this, but the Doctor had an idea that Purgatory would be an ideal location to trap the three Weeping Angels that had sprung up around Canary Wharf. Of course, what the Doctor meant was a black hole called Purgatory, if not the actual place that Dean and Sam knew of (and that John had only heard of), but the Doctor figured that it was just a matter of semantics and it would all be sorted later.

So far the Doctor’s plan was going off without a hitch – until it didn’t. The fourth angel was considerably weaker, but that’s what made it all the more dangerous. They didn’t know it was there until John spotted it. John couldn’t hold it there on his own for long. Sooner or later, he would have to blink. And the starving angel would steal his time. He would vanish forever. Even the Doctor couldn’t bring John back in the TARDIS. 

Sherlock heard his heartbeat in his ears echo his footsteps down into the darkness. “We’re coming, John! Hang on!” Sherlock shouted in to the murk. He cursed the earlier decision to split up to flank the angels. It was the best way to trap them and between Dean, the Doctor, Sam, Sherlock, and John, they got the three they knew about hemmed up and dispatched in no time. As for the fourth…

“Hurry!” shouted John.

The alley seemed to wind and twist away into the darkness. It seemed interminable. John was at the end of it all somewhere staring down the remainder of his existence in the 21st Century. 

“We’re coming, John!” shouted Sam.

“Hang on, man!” shouted Dean. The Winchesters trailed the detective by only meters, Sam right behind him and Dean following Sam. No one knew where the Doctor had gotten to.

Sherlock rounded the last corner, his eyes wide open to prevent the angel from capturing John, but all he saw was John’s face as the doctor turned toward his best friend.

“Sherlock,” John said. An instant later, he disappeared into nothingness.

They were too late.

 

~080~

 

The angel turned to stone as soon as he was gone because with John no longer in the way, Sherlock had a direct line of sight at it.  
“JOHN!” screamed Sherlock, his eyes wide. He skidded to a halt and Sam and Dean soon joined him, alternately staring down the monster to keep it frozen.

“Jesus! John!” said Dean.

Sam said, “Dean,” to let Dean to know not to lose eye contact with the creature. Dean nodded and stared hard at the angel. Sam turned to Sherlock. He had gone white as a sheet. Sam gripped him by the arms and stared down at him, shaking him to get his attention. “Sherlock? You OK, man?”

Sherlock looked at Sam as if the man had sprouted two heads.

“Not the best line of questioning, dude,” said Dean.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Sherlock,” Sam began again, “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know how to cope with this. He struggled to breathe. This couldn’t be happening. The Doctor had to help him. Where was that frustrating Time Lord?

“Ah HA!” The shout of triumph was accompanied by the sound of the temporal force field that suddenly surrounded the angel. The Doctor came out from the alley behind the angel aiming the Judoon field generator (*) at the statue. He set it on the ground, the field still quite active, and danced in triumph clapping his hands in joy. He looked around at the others and his child-like grin slowly faded as he counted noses. “Right,” said the Doctor slowly, dreading to ask the unasked question. “Where’s John, then?” He knew the answer. He suspected it anyhow. He asked the question because he hoped for a different answer.

Sam and Dean looked at the Doctor, regret painting their faces. Sherlock was still in shock. He stood silent gazing upon the instrument of his life’s destruction.

“Ah,” said the Doctor softly. He walked carefully to Sherlock. The detective visibly stiffened at the Doctor’s approach. Sam stepped aside and both he and his brother watched as the Doctor placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He looked the man square in the eye and said, “I am so so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Doctor,” said Sherlock numbly, “are you sure there’s nothing you can do?”

A pained expression crossed his face and he said, “I am, Sherlock. I can’t cross timelines. There’s no retrieving him. No visiting from a distance. I can do nothing. And besides, we don’t know where he’s gone. Or when. He could be anywhere.”

Defeated, Sherlock hung his head. He refused to cry over John. He was too much of a Holmes for that.

“Come on, you lot,” said the Doctor. “Let’s get the TARDIS ‘round this one and dump it into Purgatory.”

 

~080~

 

“Here,” said Sam to Sherlock, handing the man a hot cup of tea. They sat on the TARDIS stairs waiting to get to the edge of Purgatory. The shield was still active around the angel. It was still in the same position it was in when it took John: reaching out, fangs exposed, claws extended. It was obviously predatory, if not completely malicious. It actively repulsed Sherlock to gaze upon it. But it was the only link to John. The only link… What was to be done about that? If you lose the key to access your treasure, do you get rid of the chest the treasure rests in? Or do you find a way to break into the chest?

“Once we’re rid of the thing, you’ll be able to move on, Sherlock,” said Sam.

“I will never be over John,” said Sherlock. “Don’t presume to know my heart, Mr. Winchester.”

“Sorry, Sherlock,” said Sam. “I was only trying—“

“You were only trying my patience!” said Sherlock. “Now please leave me and let me think!”

“Hey!” said Dean, storming over to where the two were seated, “You don’t get to yell at my brother like that, you fancy English b—“

The Doctor chimed in: “HEY! Dean! Sam! Could I have your help over here? Right now?” Slowly the brothers came over to the Doctor, Dean giving Sherlock a look that could have killed. “I think,” said the Doctor in a soft voice, “that we need to give Mr. Holmes his space, don’t you?”

“I was just trying to help,” said Sam.

“I know that. You know that. Dean knows that. Heck, even Sherlock knows it,” said the Doctor. “But he’s… well… he’s Sherlock Homes. He’s not going to behave as we would in this type of situation.”

“Well, I know how I’d feel,” said Dean.

“Oh? You have a gay lover?” said the Doctor. “Good on you, Dean!” He patted him on the shoulder encouragingly. “I didn’t know you had anyone in your life! Well… there is Castiel, but I didn’t think---“

“What? I – No! No… wait. Sherlock… and John?!” said Dean.

“Of course!” said Sam, “No wonder he’s so upset. I mean… I knew they were friends…”

“…and what do you mean “there is Castiel?”” asked Dean, talking over his brother. “I’m not gay. And Cas? I don’t even think he knows what sex is, never mind…”

“…but I never figured they were having a relationship. Wow… Sherlock is really heartbroken, isn’t he, Doctor?” asked Sam.

“…what to do with a guy. I mean, can you imagine Cas having anal sex?” asked Dean.

“What?” asked Sam and the Doctor simultaneously.

“What?” said Dean.

All three of them turned to regard Sherlock who was seated on the stairs, hands steepled under his chin as he stared intensely at the angel in their midst.

 

~080~

 

“But that… thing… is the link to John,” said Sherlock, squinting at the statue over the Doctor’s shoulder.

“It holds its own place in the temporal shift, yes…” said the Doctor, eyeing the detective suspiciously. “What are you thinking, Holmes?”

“Are you certain that there’s no way to tell where or when it can send someone?” asked Holmes.

“Sherlock,” said the Doctor, “Please don’t torture yourself with this. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I’m not asking for us to travel there in the TARDIS, Doctor,” said Sherlock.

“Well that’s good because—,“ said the Doctor.

“What I’m thinking is…” said Sherlock, “that if you analyze the temporal shield generator, discover what sort of whatsis it’s giving off in order to keep such a creature in place – a creature which, by your own admission, holds a very specific place in the temporal shift – you could probably pinpoint a general time and place as to where and when John has gone.” Sherlock stared intensely at the Doctor. “Don’t you think that’s likely?”

A thought blossomed on the Doctor’s face and he grinned widely at Sherlock. Suddenly, his face fell. “What you want to know is when and where John has gone. Using your logic -- which is impressive, by the way – we should be able to determine his location within weeks if not years. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t take you there. Why do you want to know something that you can’t do anything about?”

“Because,” said Sherlock with an exasperated sigh, “I can then do some research and become better prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” chimed in Dean. He and Sam had been watching this exchange with avid interest.

“Prepared to get my life back,” said Sherlock.

 

~~~~~~  
*It was a borrowed Judoon temporal field generator, of course. The Doctor intended to return it just as soon as it had outlived its usefulness. That hadn’t happened yet, so he just hung onto it, as one does when one isn’t quite sure of when such a thing could be useful. After all, it’s not as if the Judoon would honestly miss just one teensy little temporal field generator. Would they?


	2. Found

John said, “Sherlock.” And that was the last time he saw the detective.

He blinked. He blinked and London of his time disappeared. He re-appeared in London again (thank God) and in the exact same alleyway. John knew it was the same alley based on the position of the buildings. He knew he was out of his time because of everything else.

For one thing, it was light out and it was snowing. For another, the walls that surrounded him were plastered with very old playbills. Not that the playbills themselves were old; it was more that the acts being advertised were old fashioned. Jenny Lind? Seriously? The walls that the paper adhered to were newer as well with fresh mortar in between the bricks. But it was the final clue that he was a man out of his own time which made John shiver in his coat: Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

What had the Doctor said about the angels? That they steal your life energy by stealing your time. Something like that. They feed off of it and then cast you back into the past. But where was he? When was he? And what was he going to do?

Hearing a noise behind him, he called out for Sherlock reflexively only to see a bewhiskered stranger step from the shadows. The startled man tipped his hat and moved on, sidling around John and staring at him as though he were a leper or a freak from the circus. John stared helplessly at the retreating figure.

No Sherlock. No way of getting home. No idea when he was. It was too much for his poor brain to take. What the hell happens now? Ultimately John’s overwrought brain made up his mind for him. He sunk down in the cold wet of the alley, hung his head, and cried like the little lost boy that he was.

Several minutes of sobbing passed him by when he thought he heard carol singers. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his own agony and listened, trying to remind himself that he was still alive and that there was an entire world out there for him to still be a part of. He may not have a consulting detective anymore, but he was still a soldier and a doctor and he was damn good at being both. Worse came to worse, he could join the army again. No matter the century, a fighting man was always worth something.

He wiped his tears and rose to his feet. The base of his coat had taken the brunt of the wet, but he was cold all over. He took a deep breath and followed the man he had seen before. The noise of the main road became louder and louder. The carolers’ song he had heard earlier became clearer and more distinct: The Holly and the Ivy. Pretty tune.

He came out just along Manchester Road. In his own time, if he looked to his right, he would have seen the Millennium Dome dominating the far shore. Today in this whenever-it-was, all he saw were tall-masted ships in the distance, shops and vendor’s carts full of things to buy, and people… lots and lots of people.

The carol singers were standing in front of the window of a sweets shop and John took some time to watch them from across the road. The song made him feel a bit better. It was a connection. It was something to remind him of a life he once knew. John had never felt more grateful for anything in his life.

It suddenly struck him: it was Christmastime. Obvious, Sherlock would have said. There were the carol singers, naturally, but holly was everywhere: lapels, hats, in one woman’s hair. There was a Christmas wreath on every window or door that he could see. Every shop that was along Manchester had signs out advertising their wares. Men were shouting from the carts as to what they had to sell and would anyone please step up to view their lovely items, available just in time for the season? Their voices mixed and mingled in the brisk morning air:

“Something for your wife, sir?”

“Good morning, madam? We’ve got some lovely scarves here -- all the way from Paris!”

“Can I show you our latest item?”

“Get away from that, you scoundrel!”

“That’ll be four shillings, sixpence.”

John felt a tug at his sleeve. A street urchin looked up at him with a sooty face and smiled. His two front teeth were missing, “Gi’us a tuppence, mista,” said the boy without any preamble. “O’ a ha’penny,” he added.

“Sorry, son,” said John. “I’m afraid I haven’t got any money. Now go on… shoo.” John batted the boy away gently. The child backed away and left him and John realized something else: he really didn’t have any money. The pound sterling he had in his pocket was too new to be of any use. And the shilling, the crown, even the half-penny were all gone in his day. What the hell was he going to do about that? Joining the army was looking better and better.

He had another problem: navigating London. Had he had any coin of the realm on him he could have taken a hansom, but as it was he had only the clothes on his back and his two feet to carry him anywhere. There was nothing for it; he had to walk home. He made it to Commercial Street before he realized that home was no longer at 221B Baker Street. Someone else probably lived there in this when. Even Mrs. Hudson was gone.

He stopped and looked about. Around him, the world went on. The only recognition he received to his presence was the occasional odd look he’d garner from a passer-by. Other than that he was alone in the city – hell, he was alone in the world. He had no friends to call on in his time of need. There was no ex-girlfriend with a lie-low. There wasn’t even the brother of a flat mate to regretfully ask for help. He was utterly, completely, and heartbreakingly alone.

Right. Time to think practically. Where could one go in this era to seek shelter? His feet were wet and his heavy coat with its fur-lined hood was his best ally at the moment, but it wouldn’t keep out the cold forever. One sock on his foot had a hole in it. He was tired. He needed to rest his head and think about what he would do with his life.

In the distance he noticed a church. The good fathers of St. Dunstan’s took pity on him and gave him something to eat and a few more clothes to keep. The material was rough, but there were some good pieces, albeit a little worn. They even gave him a cap but he didn’t put it on straight away. Lice were a real worry in this when and John didn’t want to take chances with his health. They had no beds for the night, but were able to allow him to rest for a bit. He listened to their quiet chatter for a while, but then his attention drifted to something across the chapel.

John spotted a newspaper in the corner of the vestibule and asked if he could have it. They gave it over with a smile, stating that it was just too bad that it was a day old. John smiled and thanked them. He bundled up his clothes in a worn blanket and left. He needed to cope with his situation in private and as nice and understanding as the fathers seemed, he really didn’t want to turn into a sobbing useless mess in front of them.

He walked down Bromley Street back toward the Commercial Road holding the paper to him. He didn’t dare to look at it. He didn’t want to know how far back the weeping angel had sent him. As he approached the corner of the main thoroughfare he couldn’t wait any longer.

The date on the page caused his breathing to hitch. Yesterday’s date, December 22nd, 1885 leapt out at him. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints and angels… this was more than a bit not good.

John ducked into a small alley way and tried desperately to get a hold of himself. He couldn’t. It was all too much. For the second time that day, he hunched over in a dark lonely alley and wept as only the truly abandoned can.

He let the pain of his existence roll over him as he gulped down air between sobs. He attempted to stifle his cries, but a man poked his head in the opening of the alley and shouted at him to get a move on: “You! Yes you! Go on! Go now or I’ll have the constable on you! Go on!” John left the alley cowering past the burly gent who scowled at him and glared, his beefy hands on his hips.

The fathers had mentioned Christ Church which was up the Commercial Road and that they might have further information as to what a man could do to seek shelter if he were in need. John crossed Whitechapel Road and made it to the white steepled edifice. Inside he warmed himself and learned that there may be a bed available through Mr. Booth’s Salvation Army.

The news was given hesitantly and John asked why. “Well, my dear fellow,” began the priest, “Mr. Booth and his lot are… rather revolutionary. And really they can be quite… How should I put it? I suppose one could say that they are… passionate?”

“Practically evangelical,” said another.

“Right,” said the first priest, “Evangelical. They do see a bit of resistance from the gross populace because of their… tactics, but all in all, they are well-meaning people and will be glad to see you right again. They are the best I can offer you for assistance.”

“How evangelical is ‘evangelical’, reverend?” asked John hesitantly. 

“They will ask you to pray with them,” said the reverend, “They will most likely ask you to convert yourself to embrace Christianity. And… most likely… they will attempt to baptize you.”

“I see,” said John. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but he was literally a beggar who couldn’t be a chooser. He asked the priests how to get in touch with the Army and they provided what information they had.

Once John had approached them for help, everything the reverends had said came to pass. He was asked to renounce the devil and embrace Jesus as his only Lord and Savior. He was asked to pray. He was baptized in the blood of the Lamb. John allowed it all to happen to him, even though he didn’t know if he really believed in a god any more than he believed in the man in the moon. All he knew was that he needed the help.

They led him to a small house and down some rather frightening wooden stairs into an open cellar where some basic beds had been set up. There were several men there and John decided that it might be best if he kept to himself. He selected a cot in the corner and lay upon it, intending to rest for at least a few hours. He needed to find a recruiting office in the morning. There were no other choices for him. He had to re-join the Queen’s Army. Same army, different queen, he thought to himself and grinned.

“Oi! You there!” said a harsh voice. John’s eyes snapped open. “What you doin’ on my bunk?”

“I’m sorry, I—,“ said John. And that’s as far as he got in the conversation before he was hoisted up to his feet by a very angry (and smelly) man who could very easily have been mistaken for an escaped mountain gorilla.

“Here, what’s this then?” said the man, eyeing John’s coat. “Are you some kind of an arctic explorer?” This was intended as a joke and the man’s friends joined him in a hearty chuckle at their leader’s jest. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it started as the man pulled John to him sharply and said: “Give it to me.”

“What?” said John, “Give you my coat? Why should I do that?”

“Because if you don’t,” said the man, “I’ll take it from you anyway. Consider it your Christian duty. Think of it as an act of piety.”

“Donating to those less fortunate, eh?” asked John.

“That’s right,” said the man. “You’ll feel so much better in your everlasting soul if you do it all on your own.”

“Right,” said John. The man slowly released him and John did the maths in his head. The man was as tall as Sherlock but deeper chested with bulkier limbs. And there were five other men with him who wanted to do whatever the boss wanted to do. Six against one were not good odds. With a sigh, John unzipped his coat and handed it over to the man.

“Cheers, mate,” said he. “You’re a good ‘un and no mistake.” John watched helplessly as the man put on the only source of real protection he had against the elements. Now he was left with whatever was in his blanket---

Two of the other men were pilfering the bundle John had been laying his head on. “Hey!” said John.

“What?” said one, “Aren’t you still feeling charitable?” He and his friend laughed as they took almost every solid piece of clothing he had found. In the end, he was left with a waistcoat, some fingertip-less gloves, and the hat.

The men drifted away from him after robbing him blind. For a moment John tried to convince himself that the coat wouldn’t have been as useful for the simple fact that it made him stick out like a sore thumb in this day and age.

After an hour of pretending to be happy that it all turned out this way, all the fooling himself in the world couldn’t stem the anger that was roiling up inside him. God damn it. He had been a soldier. He could take on this crowd with one hand tied behind his back. And why shouldn’t he? What’s the worst that could happen? He’d be arrested? Hell, at least there’s shelter and meals in jail. And if he got his coat back, he could at least weather a cold jail cell.

The man (who was called George as John discovered through the conversation of the others) was sitting at his ease in the opposite corner seemingly holding court with the other ne’er-do-wells that formed his gang. His feet were propped up next to the fire and he leaned back a bit in his chair. The other five either leaned against the wall on either side of the small fireplace or sat in chairs to either side of George.

John did some mental calculating: three in chairs, two leaning, and a fire poker in plain view. Two men were seated at George’s left, one at his right, so John should approach from the right. A throat punch to the man standing at the right of the fireplace should distract him enough for him to get a hold of the poker. The one man to George’s right was cross-eyed and probably couldn’t see past his own nose, so he was to be punched out with a left to the head. John’s next moves were to be to kick over George’s chair, landing the man on his back, and then to use the fire poker to break his kneecaps. If anyone was stupid enough to try to grab the poker, John would oblige them by breaking their fucking arm.

This wasn’t about being polite and fitting in. It wasn’t about going unnoticed in this when and keeping your head down. This was about survival of the fittest. John stood and slowly made his way toward them.

 

~080~

 

In the end, they all got nicked. And John didn’t get his coat back. It wound up in the fire. In the back of the paddy-wagon, John stared malevolently at his enemies. They gave him the same looks. The constable riding along warned them all to behave themselves. John’s only two regrets at this point were the loss of his coat and the fact that George only had one kneecap broken. John would never miscalculate on a throat punch again. It was effective for being able to grab the poker, but he didn’t think that the man’s recovery would be that swift.

He and the others were lead before the magistrate who fined each of them for disrupting the peace and then excused the payment of said fines. This was excessively lenient considering the violence of the act, but John soon realized that the magistrate was more concerned about putting a black mark against the Salvation Army than he was about vagrants fighting. He began to make a speech against the Army and its evangelical ways and the trouble they caused. John noticed more than one journalist noting down the man’s words. He shook his head at his luck.

He was released into the High Street of Whitechapel and realized that he still didn’t have a place to stay for the night. Vaguely, he followed the other men he was released with, keeping his distance from them. Once or twice they would look back at him suspiciously, but must have ultimately decided that John really was a lonely soul with nowhere to go.

John spent several hours trailing them. They seemed to have no particular destination in mind. It was black as pitch out and he was exhausted and hungry. Suddenly a very familiar landmark came into view and John damn near cried at the sight. It was Tower Bridge.

George’s old gang (for George himself was in hospital) took a side-path that led under the bridge. There they lit fires in old barrels and brought out some potatoes one of them had stripped from a cart during their wanderings. These they placed on sticks and set them to cooking over the fire. “’Ere,” said one, handing John a potato and a stick.

“Cheers,” said John. He skewered the vegetable and set it to cook along with the others, enjoying the heat coming from the barrel. John felt a glimmer of happiness at this inclusion and looked to each of the men. They did not look at John. The glimmer faded instantly. He wasn’t included; he was tolerated.

They held their silence even after the meager meal had been consumed. John moved off to sit by the Thames and wished for a warm fire in a proper hearth, a hot cuppa, a book, and his comfortable chair.

He was past tears now. He had lost everything. He was emotionally numb, physically spent, and desperately alone. He didn’t want to join the army. He wanted his life back. He wanted his Sherlock back. He wanted to go running off into the dark on the trail of a murderer. He wanted to solve crimes and make the world safer. He wanted to have a pint down at the pub with Greg Lestrade. Jesus Christ, he’d have kissed Molly on the mouth if he could just get back to the 221B of his memory.

John brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms about his legs. The only thing between him and the winter weather was his jumper and a waistcoat that was just a bit too big for him. He shivered and wandered back to the fires. He wished for Sherlock’s arms around him. He wished for a full stomach of Chinese take away. He wished… 

He brought a fist to his mouth to help hold back his tears. The two other men at the same fire with him looked one to the other and slowly walked away, leaving John on his own. Again. Forever.

John looked at the river, its dark water churning slowly by. What was stopping him from ending it all? Would it really matter? He wasn’t supposed to be here anyway. He had nothing. He knew no one and no one knew him. And he and Sherlock would never see each other again. If he slipped beneath the waves the world wouldn’t blink.

“Not thinking of taking a swim, I hope,” came a familiar voice.

Oh dear Christ, thought John, I’ve gone insane. John turned anyway and saw a tall dark figure wrapped in a black cloak and wearing – of all things! – a deerstalker cap. The shadow took a step forward toward the firelight.

“Sherlock?” said John. He had to be insane. There was no way. No way at all.

“Yes, John,” said Sherlock. He gave John that beaming grin that he knew Sherlock only reserved for him. “Come home with me.”

John didn’t have any words to say. If he were honest, he might have gone so far as to admit that, at that precise moment in time, the English language was evading his brain with incredible persistence. Failing at human speech, John simply nodded and allowed Sherlock to take him by the arm back up to the main road, bundle him into a waiting carriage, and whisk him off in the direction of Regent’s Park.

Inside the carriage, Sherlock handed John a flask of whiskey and covered his legs with a fur blanket. The warmth both outside and in were more than welcome and John could feel his cheeks flush with the alcohol. John found his words after a few sips. “Where in hell have you come from?” he asked, still daring not to hope that this was really happening to him.

“The twenty-first century, of course,” said Sherlock. “Same as you.”

“The weeping angel…,” began John.

“The Doctor figured out more or less what time period you were cast into,” said Sherlock. “After that it was simple: gather wealth in the appropriate currency -- enough wealth to live on indefinitely, secure housing for us, prepare for your arrival, and then watch the history books for you.”

“You… prepared to come after me?” said John.

“And I prepared to establish myself in London as a consulting detective,” said Sherlock.

“How?” said John.

“By solving some of the more difficult conundrums for some of the crowned heads of Europe,” said Sherlock. “That way, I would come into this era of London with a grand reputation and some wealth; something that could hardly be overlooked by the police of this century.”

“But the Doctor said--,” began John.

“The Doctor said that he couldn’t mess with your direct time line, John,” said Sherlock. “And we didn’t. We simply danced around you in time. We never affected you or the fate you were to suffer.”

“And then, once you had everything set, you just let the weeping angel touch you,” said John.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock.

“But how did you find me in London? It’s a big city,” said John.

“John,” said Sherlock, “Do you realize to whom you speak?”

“Of course… You let the angel touch you in the exact same spot in Canary Wharf that it touched me. And it brought you where I went. And you just asked about for a fellow dressed like Nanook of the North, eh?” said John.  
Sherlock gave him a lop-sided grin. “You made an impression on more than a few people,” he said.

John could have burst from happiness. That stupid coat served its purpose after all. They were completely enclosed in the carriage for Sherlock had thoughtfully drawn the curtains. John took direct advantage of that fact by soundly snogging his Sherlock.

As their kiss broke, John whispered: “Never stop kissing me, Sherlock. Ever.”

“I promise, John,” said Sherlock softly and he placed a sweet lingering kiss on his mouth.

 

~080~

 

“It was obvious, John,” said Sherlock almost three years later.

“Obvious that a precious and rare gemstone had just happened to be found inside of a goose?” asked John incredulously.

The two men sat in the comfort of 221B’s sitting room. The first days of autumn had called and the fire was cheerily lit between them. Sherlock was in his chair, a dressing gown covering his white shirt and pressed trousers, his violin dangling from his fingers. John was sitting with the untouched morning paper in his lap, dressed for the day. It was only an hour after breakfast and Sherlock was bored again. John had made the hazardous mistake of discussing one of his past cases.

“The gem in question wasn’t so much found there,” corrected Sherlock, “more that it was secreted there. For safe-keeping. You recall the man’s confession, don’t you? It happened right here!”

“I do,” said John. “What I still don’t understand is why you consider it a Christmastime story.”

“Because it happened at Christmastime,” said Sherlock exasperated.

“But that’s nothing to do with the season,” said John. And as if to put an end to the argument, he took the paper from his lap and shook it out. The headline screamed out at him: “Another Tragic Death in Whitechapel”. John found himself saying: “Oh… my… God.”

“What?” said Sherlock.

“You did say you were bored, right?” said John.

“Yes. Why?” asked Sherlock. John turned the paper around slowly, showing the headline to Sherlock.

A grin spread across Sherlock’s face. “Mrs. Wilson!” he screamed. “Mrs. Wilson!” A woman of about fifty came huffing up the stairs.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” she panted.

“Go find us a hansom,” said Sherlock standing and whipping off his dressing gown to don his jacket and coat. “The game, Mrs. Wilson… The game is on!”


End file.
